Concrete Heartache
by angelface04
Summary: It was the little things that got me hysterical...like when she called me Fred for the first time. Post Deathly Hallows - oneshot GeorgexAngelina.


**A/N: OH MY GAWD I AM UPLOADING A FANFICTION. Haha. Didn't see that one coming did you? Wanna take a guess on how long it's been since I've uploaded one? **_**June of 2008**_**. Almost two years ago! Crazyyy…**

**Well anyway, here's my first fic that's from George's POV post Deathly Hallows. So spoilers? (If you really haven't read Harry Potter 7 yet, what are you doing on here?)**

**Also, the song is by an amazing band called The Icarus Account. I listened to it on repeat while writing the second half of this…so you should read it while listening to it. Download it, watch it on youtube, you know the drill.**

**Read, review, you know, whatev. (smileyface). xoxo**

**Concrete Heartache**

……

_Mayday, mayday  
Someone save me  
I am fragile  
Oh, somebody rescue me  
Oh, somebody tell me you will  
- The Icarus Account_

……

I didn't shed a tear at his funeral. I even told a funny story, laughing as those in the audience dried their eyes and smiled sadly along with me. I didn't cry when I reopened the shop on the six month anniversary of his death, not even when my teary-eyed mother grasped me into a hug and sobbed into my shoulder for half an hour. I didn't cry when, eleven months after the final battle, I celebrated my birthday alone for the first time in my life.

It was the little things that got me hysterical. Like when I saw his empty bed for the first time. Or when I had to throw away his toothbrush. Or when mum sent a care package and instead of including my favorite cookies, she'd fixed his. Or when I stumbled over our old brooms sitting in the closet. Or when _she_ called me Fred for the first time.

It was a complete accident, her and I. She'd stopped by the flat for some of her old things, and broken down. I'd scooped her up, muttered, _I'm sorry, Angie, I'm so sorry_, and rubbed her back, like I used to see him do. Then she'd looked up at me, and swallowing a soft sob, she'd reached shaking fingers to my hair and pressed timid lips to mine. After she'd left, I sat down in my chair and drank a Firewhiskey, thankful for the first time that he _wasn't_ here.

After that day, it was off and on. I wouldn't see her for a week, and then she'd stumble in, drunk, or sobbing, or exceptionally calm. It always left a taste of guilt in my mouth, a wringing feeling in my chest. I wondered if anyone knew – found out, what they would think. I wondered what _she_ thought. Because once she left in the morning, we didn't speak. It was just late nights and early mornings, and whispers of, "Come here," and "Kiss me," and "I want you".

And after all of those emotions, after everything that happened that something as simple as a name would set me off was unbelievable. The moonlight was slanting through the window and right onto her face and I marveled at how beautiful she was. I'd always thought that she was pretty, but I'd never even _allowed_ myself to think of Angelina as any more than that. She had always been _his_. There had been no question; not that I had asked, or even thought about asking. She was one of my best friends, the one with the killer body and gorgeous smile, but not one that I was ever attracted to. Now, however, staring at her in the moonlight, I felt the tug in my navel that I was sure he used to feel when he looked at her, and I kissed her.

And when she pulled away, she smiled, closed her eyes, and whispered, "Oh, Fred."

I froze. Her eyes flew open. I suddenly couldn't breathe. She was already stammering _George, George,_ _wait_ but I didn't listen. I shoved away from her, standing up and backing away, wondering what in the _hell _I had been thinking for letting this go on and how could she even say his name without feeling it like ice through her heart? Turning, I blurrily searched for my shirt, wondering where I could've laid it, wanting so desperately to cover myself.

Tears were stinging my eyes and I couldn't blink them back. My hands were shaking and I couldn't stop, because it was too painful. Wrenching, stabbing, kicking, burning, stinging…enough to make me yell out or fall to my knees or sob until my lungs gave way.

I'd never felt a pain like this.

All along, I'd been a substitute. And of course, I should have known. I _had_ known. But at the same time, I had wanted something more. That feeling of completion that Fred used to talk about. I had never wanted to pretend that _they_ hadn't existed. That he hadn't existed. I hadn't wanted to forget him, how could I forget him? But I had wanted…I had wanted…

"George…" I was gripping the back of a chair to keep myself standing and I felt her close. I couldn't look at her. I couldn't stop crying, and it didn't make any sense because all she had said was _Fred_. And I used to hear her say it all the time. "God, George, don't cry."

"Go," I managed, tensing when I felt her fingertips on my shoulder.

"_Please don't make me_." Came her whisper from behind me and I was at the same time surprised, angry, and heartbroken.

"How - how could you - "

"I need you, George." She mumbled, and I shook my head

"No, that's not fair. That's _not_ fair." I hissed, trying not to choke. I could hear her soft sobs, her whimpers, and I wanted both to scream at her to shut up _because she didn't deserve to be crying for him, not like I did_ and to gather her up into my arms and tell her i_t's gonna be alright, sweetheart, I've got you._

But I didn't do either of those things. I just stood there, still, trying to think about something else, something _happy_. But there was nothing happy. She had been my happy. My smile.

She would always, _always_ belong to him. And I resented that. I resented him for that. But only for a moment because he had deserved the very best and that was her. Angelina.

I finally managed to stop sobbing, to wipe my eyes with shaking hands, and when I finally stood and looked behind me she was sitting on the bed, tears in her eyes, halfway dressed, staring at me.

"I'm sorry." She muttered.

I shook my head, shut my eyes tightly and then opened them again.

"You look just like him. Still. And it's just hard, sometimes."

"I know." I replied, my voice catching, another tear falling. I motioned to the mirror on the wall. "I have to look at it every day."

It was quiet for a moment. Finally she said, "I'll go. If you want."

Her lip was quivering, her feet reaching for the floor. I looked down at the carpet, let her stand. She tugged on her denims, pulled her shirt over her head. I waited until she slipped her shoes on and had her hand on the doorknob before I heard,

"Wait." And then, after a moment, I realized that it was my voice. Or maybe it was Fred's. Either way, she paused, looked back at me, her makeup drawing a black line towards her chin on both cheeks, her hair messily thrown up, her eyes bloodshot. "Stay with me."

She sagged visibly, her bag falling to the floor, her head ducking as her shoulders rocked with sobs, her hands covered her face, and I crossed the room, sliding my arms around her, holding her as she cried and I cried and we apologized over and over and over…whether we were apologizing to each other or to Fred I'm still not sure.

She slept fully clothed that night, curled into me like a child.

And I knew if Fred had been able to, he would've said _thank you_.


End file.
